To tell the truth, I have forgotten

which year goes with what. 
My memory: as good as milk.

My family: spoiled through 
and through. Pure as mold

on a September nectarine, 
we refuse to announce defeat,

death. In this house, the margins 
of mourning are tucked in,

pleated to the neck. 
In August, my uncle dies

and no one tells his children. 
He crosses his arms

in a blue suit in a coffin 
where the ants

want in. In December, 
my brother and I bundle up

for a storm that goes 
through another town.

What were we preparing for? 
My mother warns us:

beware of well-lit places. 
Beware of fires burning
 
in the dark. If there is a spider 
under your cup,

what will you do about it?